


tomorrow is my turn

by oh_simone



Series: retired OGs. [2]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M, retired old gangsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:06:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_simone/pseuds/oh_simone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the middle of an absurdly hot summer that Gokudera decides they should repaint the walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tomorrow is my turn

**Author's Note:**

> Follows Paper Castles (Non, je ne regrette rien); will make a bit more sense if read after that.  
> Title from Nina Simone.

It’s in the middle of an absurdly hot summer that Gokudera decides they should repaint the walls.

Yamamoto looks up from his book on fencing (he’s been trying to find a hobby that could possibly work well with his skills as an ex-assassin) and blinks, then agrees amiably because Gokudera is getting that antsy, twitchy sort of look that promises vengeful shopping or angry Shostakovich at two in the morning.

“Great,” Gokudera growls at him spitefully, champing down on the filter of his cigarette and pacing the length of their living room restlessly. After a moment, he spins on his heel and looks perplexedly at Yamamoto. “How do we start?”

 

Yamamoto just barely manages to convince Gokudera not to get started the same day. What about your students, he reminds and Gokudera clearly has a brief moment where he’s about to say something entirely inappropriate and inaccurate about the health benefits of paint fumes on adolescents. Yamamoto feels inordinately proud that Gokudera refrains himself from doing so. Instead, the mafioso-turned-piano-teacher grudgingly fetches the calendar off the kitchen wall, and they spend the rest of the golden afternoon drinking cold cider and consulting the weather forecast for the next month.

Gokudera looks appalled that he’ll have to switch to home visits while the paint is going up and drying, but Yamamoto muses about taking the opportunity to switch the music room and the living room and getting a second piano in like Gokudera has been considering, and Gokudera immediately goes to fetch his London underground map to coordinate his lesson schedule.

Yamamoto wonders what brought this fit of activity on, but Gokudera is looking livelier (if grumpier) by the second; he leans back into the couch, helplessly fond of the other man as Gokudera takes meticulous notes on his notepad with the air of Caesar planning a siege.

 

They visit the nearest Crown Decorator Centre, and are subsequently shocked and perturbed to find that there isn’t such a thing as ‘just wall paint’, but also primer, and matt and silk vinyl, and anti-fungal, and flame-retardant. Gokudera is close to giving up on the paint job and turning to some other more potentially destructive activity like lawn bowling when the sales rep accosts them in the aisle for wood varnish and gently steers them back to where the wall paint is. With her help, they pick up a few buckets of primer, painter’s tape, a couple of rollers, and plastic sheeting for the furniture and floors. Then, Yamamoto tugs Gokudera over to the giant display of color palettes and samples, and that is when World War III is a near thing. Yamamoto had figured they could do with something new, since they were going through the whole process of it—blue then, a fresh, vivid, robin egg blue that will complement the sunny summer afternoons and brighten gloomy, early-dark winters. Gokudera vetoes the suggestion immediately, snapping that blue would totally ruin the lighting of the living room, and continues on to advocate some off-white shade that isn’t much different than their current wall-color. What is the point of repainting a whole damn house then? Yamamoto points out, and Gokudera falls back on his age old insults about Yamamoto’s tackiness.

Thankfully, their sales rep informs them that the store’s about to close up for the night, and kicks them both out before they can do some serious damage to each other or the interactive color wheel. Outside on the street, Yamamoto shifts the bags in his hand, and breaks into a grin, bumping Gokudera’s shoulder while they try to flag down a cab.

“Hey,” he says. “Gokudera.”

“What,” Gokudera bites back, clearly still disgruntled. Yamamoto takes the opportunity to kiss the side of his head, just a fond, brief press against that silver gray hair.

“You can choose whichever color,” he declares magnanimously. “I’ll be the bigger man.”

“Admirable of you,” Gokudera drawls sarcastically acid, but when in the cab Yamamoto slings an arm around his shoulders, he doesn’t move away.

 

The first day they spend pushing whatever they can out of the living room into the adjoining hall, dragging less-delicate furniture into the backyard, and then tacking plastic sheeting over the rest. Yamamoto walks barefoot over the old, creaking floors and feels the plastic stick and peel uncomfortably from his skin with every step he takes. Reaching the far wall, he unlatches the windows and pushes them out, and then opens the doors to the backyard as well, toeing a loose brick to act as a doorjamb. Gokudera is in the grass barefoot with his jeans rolled up and a cigarette dangling from his fingers. His head is tilted a little back, and his glasses are high on his face; he doesn’t seem to be looking at much, but the lines of his body are loose and relaxed. Littered across their small green patch of yard are their heavy antique armchairs, the satin upholstery jewel-bright under the yellow sunshine while stray dandelions brush against their sides. It looks so terribly English, like a strangely midlife twist on Alice in Wonderland. Yamamoto suddenly wishes he was an artist, a photographer so he can commit this scene to eternity.

“Ready?” Yamamoto calls, and Gokudera jerks like he’d been a thousand miles (or years) away.

“Yes,” he replies after a pause, and as he walks up to the house, he gives Yamamoto a small grin.

 

He still remembers the first week of returning to the family after his stint in the major leagues. His shirt collar had been scratchy around the edges and echoes of his footsteps were unfamiliar down the halls. He’d faltered to a stop in the long, western corridor outside Gokudera’s office, straining to hear the faint hints of… music? The instance of pushing through the solid oak doors just as the aria had broken over the crescendo, the soprano soaring clear and heartstopping against the swell of strings. Gokudera, young still but tired, asleep in his chair with one hand loosely clutching his pen and glasses perched precariously on his nose, bathed in the sunlight streaming in through the windows behind him. The Yamamoto then couldn’t breathe; his hands had gone clammy and his chest had felt too tight. That very first moment, when he realized Gokudera was the most beautiful he’d ever seen, he hadn’t been able to do a thing.

Now though, as he lets himself in with the groceries, he smiles as the warm, rolling music washes over him. He drops the bags on the kitchen counter, then makes his way into the living room where the strong, sweet tenor fairly resonates the air. Gokudera is concentrated on rolling white primer across the walls; behind him in the center of the room is the old record player Yamamoto’d dragged in from some antique shop, a wide black record spinning evenly under the needle and pouring out Puccini. Hearing his footsteps, Gokudera half turns to him, and smiles, crooked, sheepish, and startlingly comfortable, and Yamamoto just laughs and tilts his head.

“E come vivo? Vivo,” he hums, and has the pleasure of seeing Gokudera’s eye roll, and his smile turn into a full-blown grin.

 

London weather proves its fickleness the very next day, and suddenly there is a cool wetness in the air with a bright, sunless gray clouding the skies. Yamamoto and Gokudera continue prepping the far side of the wall, but then the wind gusts through the open doors and windows, flips the pan of primer all over the plastic sheeting. The spare roller jounces against Gokudera’s ankle, splattering flecks of white on his shoes. Laughing, Yamamoto tugs and locks the back doors, just as the first sprinkling of rain drops hit the glass panes, then tugs Gokudera to the ground. He’s grumbling about his ruined shoes, but Yamamoto just sees the bright gleam of his green eyes and the relaxed corners of his thin mouth. There’s paint on his glasses, and his bangs are tied back in an awkward little sprout of gray. The shirt he has on is old and worn with a little hole starting at the back of the collar; Yamamoto recognizes it as his own. There’s nothing glamorous about either of them at the moment, and Gokudera is a far cry from the polished, shark-like creature he had been in mafia boardrooms. If anything, they're both rough and worn around the edges, but despite that, the surge of love and affection Yamamoto feels is stronger now than ever.

Gokudera looks up at him then, questioning, sharing a moment of wry perplexity at the contrary weather. Yamamoto leans in and kisses him, soft, and slow, and lingering. The moment stretches long and languid, snaps back into focus as he pulls away briefly.

Eyes wide, Gokudera’s lip twitches. “I’m too old for this, and so’s your back,” he warns, but offers no resistance as Yamamoto laughingly guides him onto his back, straddling his waist and pushing their entwined hands up above Gokudera’s head. He kisses him again, and again, reveling in the way Gokudera yields and quiets under his hands and mouth. There’s plastic sheeting crackling and sliding under and around them, and the heavy smell of paint everywhere, but the air is cool after so many hot days, and Gokudera’s hands are creeping up under his own shirt, so Yamamoto just goes with it, readily, as desire sparks and glows in his gut.

Gokudera sighs and arches; Yamamoto mouths his white collarbone, traces the slope with his tongue down to the sternum, skimming past the edges of a raised white scar where a bullet had driven through a year ago. Fingers stroke his short hair as Yamamoto lowers himself against the warm planes of Gokudera’s body. They’ve grown up, he thinks, but not yet old.

 

Only once has he ever come close to leaving the family and Gokudera completely behind him. Her name was Hailey, and she was plain and thin, but had the sweetest brown eyes he’d ever seen. When they met in San Francisco, she’d had her fingers in his pocket, pinching his battered wallet, and it was only the shock at having a kid get the sneak on him that saved her life.

She was only thirteen.

Yamamoto wishes he could have saved her.

He thinks he might tell Gokudera about her someday, but not yet.

 

Over a full English breakfast and coffee in the kitchen, Gokudera is making meticulous notes on a thick palette of paint samples, a stack of ABRSM paperwork for piano exams, and the front page of the Financial Times. Yamamoto is content to sit with him in silence, sipping strong earl grey and watching morning rainclouds lighten and disperse outside the window. This morning, whatever Gokudera’s slipped on the record player makes Yamamoto feel restless, the singer reminding him that times they are a-changin’.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, and when Gokudera’s gaze flickers to him, he asks, “Will we spend the rest of our lives here?”

The expression on Gokudera’s face is suddenly as blank, though his gaze is sharper. After staring at him in silence, Gokudera eases the glasses off his face and regards with some hints of curiosity, maybe a small flash of concern.

“London, you mean? Or this house?” And he sounds a little wary too fast, like he’s played this scenario as a nightmare too many times in his mind already and knows where this is going. Yamamoto recognizes the forcefully neutral expression on Gokudera’s face; hadn’t seen it as much in recent months, and realizes he hasn’t miss it at all. It aches, knowing that there’s still so much to repair and build between them, but for now, he just smiles and shrugs.

“With the painting,” he clarifies, “and your students. It seems like you’re setting down roots.”

Gokudera frowns a little bit. “I’ve been here almost four years.”

Yamamoto rocks a little. Four years. He’d forgotten Gokudera had lived here before he moved in. Of course.

“Are you happy?”

“What?” Yamamoto focuses on Gokudera, still poker-faced, but whose knuckles are white. The seconds tick by; somewhere outside, the lady next door greets a friend in a jovial Liverpool accent. The hum of electricity in the kitchen is suddenly very audible. Finally, Yamamoto laughs.

“No other way to live, right?” he says, suddenly feeling inexplicably cheery. “Hey, let’s go shopping. I think we should buy posters for the wall.”

The line between Gokudera’s eyebrows deepens with irritation; it’s not the sort of answer that Gokudera, short of patience and direct of object, likes. He’s always had trouble with ambiguity, but after a moment, his frown smoothes out and he calmly flips the paper over.

“Whatever,” he replies grudgingly, tossing his reading glasses on the newspaper. “Let me get my coat.”

 

Yamamoto took a long while to come down from being a mafia hit man. He counts himself lucky, because it’s not an experience most mafia hit men get to have.

 

In their bed, sunk into the crisp white linens, Yamamoto sprawls over Gokudera’s torso and folds his arms along the top of his chest so he can prop his chin up. His bedmate stares back at him flatly, clearly wondering where this is going. There’s still a faint sense of unease to his expression, so Yamamoto stretches forward to peck his chin reassuringly. He’s been thinking the whole day, as they’d wandered through Camden Market’s eclectic stalls, searching through trinkets and framed prints for their walls. Could he stay here indefinitely? Another year, or four, and more? And every time he saw the glint of sun off Gokudera’s gray head, he thinks about that golden afternoon when they were still young men _living_ and his heart aches almost painfully. The truth, he’d realized watching Gokudera mercilessly bargain down a Robert Capa print, was really that simple.

“You make me live,” Yamamoto tells him, simply, holding that green gaze. “I feel everything with you.”

Gokudera’s face twists; he hadn’t been expecting this, that is obvious, but makes a valiant effort to control himself. “What exciting lives we do lead,” he drawls sarcastically, but he’s battling a pleased grin and Yamamoto realizes that he’s never been happier in his life, even if it is plain, comfortable, and ordinary where the most stressful situation they’re facing can be solved with a can of paint stripper.

Above him, Gokudera returns his attention to his book, but one hand comes to rest on his head, warm and intimate.

“I bought the paint,” he tells Yamamoto, still reading. “The BBC says it’ll be sunny tomorrow. We can finish the walls.”

“Great,” Yamamoto agrees, and lets himself be lulled to sleep.

 

The paint is blue. Not robin egg blue, but a pale, muted, airy blue that looks like a distillation of the cool autumn sky. It’s a color that, Yamamoto thinks, promises rain and thunderstorms.

When Yamamoto looks at Gokudera, delighted, his partner shrugs and kicks the paint can lightly.

“It’s your home too,” he says, not meeting Yamamoto’s eyes.

Home, Yamamoto thinks, savoring the word and the rush of warmth it brings. He reaches out and tugs Gokudera closer by his collar, kissing him and taking his time to pour all the sincerity, affection, and gratitude he has for him into it. Then, breaking off and turning away, he picks up his paint roller. Grinning at a visibly flustered Gokudera, Yamamoto takes his hand and pulls him closer as he sweeps the first stripe of blue across the wall.

**Author's Note:**

> -I never expected to write anything else for the Paper Castles verse. But then, I wanted to write super domestic fluff, and what's more fluffy than cranky retired mafia dudes trying to get their Tim Allen on?  
> -I don't know how to paint a house. Sad, but true. But I did watch a lot of youtube videos on about.com.  
> -I chose to write this in kind of a cobblestone fashion because I couldn't think of a direct narrative, just in snapshot images (which in my ridiculously pretentious brain, resemble backyard lomography photos). So, excuse my inadequate writing.  
> -like its predecessor, I listened to a lot of music while writing this, including the ever-present Nina Simone that's on my playlist, Puccini, and for awhile, Beach House's [Norway](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHbtR8uO81M) on repeat, which I think, make their ways into the story.


End file.
